


Calm Wolf, Fighting Bird

by mlmc



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (torture tag is in reference to that in canon), Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bechdel Test Pass, Black Character(s), Bonding, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eagle Flies is bastard energy, Fix-It of Sorts, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Native American Character(s), Native American/First Nations Culture, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Violence, as much as i could make it anyway, tags for future content lol not all this has happened yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlmc/pseuds/mlmc
Summary: Few things could leave Charles as frazzled as the task of watching over one young man, hardly even younger than he, whose only desire in life appeared to be to make a fool of himself more times than any man on the planet. Nonetheless, being just about the only person Eagle Flies will remotely listen to, few things could also endear him as much. Yet, in growing involved with this man, his heart which is far too compassionate for his occupation is thrown into a politics that are not his own, but swiftly become so.





	Calm Wolf, Fighting Bird

Beyond all the age-damage in splotchy discoloring and all the vine plants grown halfway through the walls and floors, the strange and wet isolation of it and particular obviousness to any others hoping to snatch a place to sleep, Shady Belle can be thought quite a nice place. All things considered, of course. For once, they have roofs, a barn the horses can stay in, and good crawfish territory, as was eagerly told by Pearson. The food is some of the best they’ve had in months, and living is fine. The weather is humid, but it’s best not to find things to complain about when a stroke of luck hits you.

Dutch offers extravagant speeches in her favor. Their luck, things looking up from here, bold ideas for the future. Regardless of the circumstances, it puts people’s spirits a little higher, and everyone’s glad for it. 

Despite the house, not all are lucky enough to sleep inside, and among those few high-living folk is not Charles. He’s still ‘new’ and therefore unearned. No, he rather finds himself in his usual sack-bed in the dirt, not far from murky, threatening alligator-waters, with the most of the gang. Otherwise, to avoid the worst of the mosquitos who thrive on this kind of ever-present dampness and thick swampland, he spends a fair lot of his spare time either outside of camp keeping busy, or someplace he can be inside until it’s a dry day. Most often, this will mean either the barn, or the decrepit home. 

Arthur finds him in the former, one of those damp kinds of mornings that the bugs like to crawl, as Charles is offering his share of tending to the horses — for which Lenny was thrilled for the time off. Just riding back into camp, Mr. Morgan pulls his heft Warmblood on through the open barn doors to set her on a well-deservèd drink break.

“Charles,” he says near the instant he lay eyes on him. “Thought I’d find you here. What do you say to heading a little ways North with me for a job?”

Once past the initial hint of curious surprise of being asked in the first place, Charles gives hardly a second thought. Not too many jobs had come through these days; one decent coach robbery, one dud, but a little something of his own on the works for the future. He’ll take this either way. “As long as its out of Saint Denis. What is it?"

“Folks real down on their luck. I’ve worked for them once before, stealing paperwork. Paid fine." 

“What do they want this time, then?”

“Not entirely sure. They sent a letter, _but_ kept it pretty vague. ‘Spect it’s somethin’ due to the Army monitoring them.” Into his satchel he reaches for a folded up square of paper, that he flattens out, then stretches his arm out with it in his fingers.

“The Army?” Charles inquires. It occurs to him then that there were some businesses a little too big for a bundle of outlaws to handle. 

He takes the offered parchment nonetheless, reads through the details (or rather, lackthereof) of a general call for help, some worrisome phrasing, and price offer. Formal thanks on the last request. A delicate warning that a single man might not finish this job. At the bottom rests the printed signature of one Chief Rains Fall, drawn to his particular attention. Some questions are then answered, some more raised, but altogether he keeps his mouth from saying either. 

Despite his concerns, he again confirms, “Alright. Let’s go.”

He grabs his jacket off a bale of hay with an ill suspicion that the humidity of now will turn to rain later, turns its collar stiffly upwards and pats the pockets flat 'til he could consider himself halfway presentable. Packing his weapons, he fills his saddle with his few necessities, and they depart Northbound. 

Just one more bit of information he asks, just after they’ve left their camp grounds. “Where is it we’re headed exactly?”

“Wapiti Indian Reservation. Reckon they’ll like you. And I sure reckon they’ll like _me_ a little more with you standin’ next to me.” 

_Probably not._ But it’s an interesting thought. His only response is a hum. The rest of their trip is in silence, as most rides are.

Morning progresses steadily through the day as they travel from plains to hills to mountains. It’s a _long_ ride of no more extraordinary sights than the usual. Sooner or later, he begins to comprehend why Arthur had been set to leave so early. Just when he starts thinking they’re heading straight into the Grizzlies East — whereabouts Dutch had picked Charles up in the first place — Arthur takes a sturdy left, and they go full West around it. When he thinks they’re about to cross into the Grizzlies West, Arthur takes a right, and they find a winding trail North. 

Their next topic arrives with the off-trails, Arthur speaking a little louder then the rushing river this road ran alongside. “How you feelin’? About all of... everything?”

For all Arthur seems to look the quiet and sullen type, the kind of man brought in to get the brawns taken care of and then take a step back, he is quite kindly sociable in the right circumstances. He doesn’t seem the smartest, but he’s sure not the dumbest, and he makes valiant efforts to maintain some of the camp’s spirits. It’s no judgement, pot calling the kettle black; it’s always an interesting point of real personality among the camp. It’s kind of him to keep up on this sort of thing.

Still, Charles ponders his word choice with the delicacy of handling dynamite. For some of their folks, they were of the same caliber. “We’re in a rough place about now,” he tells, “and it’s likely to get worse. I guess we’ll all have to do what we can to stay afloat. From what I’ve heard, and seen, you all have made it through worse times.”

“I guess so.” 

Arthur _also_ has an interesting way of sounding like he has a little more on his mind than he’s ever willing to say. Or that he just doesn’t have the ability to put words to it. Charles lets it be. He’ll know when Arthur really wants to talk about ‘all of everything’.

Furthermore, he knows they’ve reached the place in question when he can see the peaks of tan animal-skin tipis through the trees and shrubs. Scarcely an hour’s till noon that they arrive, by the sun.

Charles, for one, is intrigued on the instant. He can’t help the way interest spikes in his chest if he tries, leaning to gaze somewhat wondrously down the way. Maybe the camp isn’t as grand as he once remembered these tribe territories to be — maybe it's far, _far_ less than that, saddening of an image as it is — but the ride into this land brings a part of his mind back to the childhood he remembers so well. The best couple years of his life to date. All the same, especially besides a man such as Arthur Morgan, he feels like he’s walking into foreign land with all the vague wonders of a tourist. Kind of the inverse reasoning to what Arthur suggested. But really, he doesn’t know if he’d feel more or less strange if he was alone.

With a job on hand, though, this isn’t the ideal time for introspection. Arthur’s voice grounds him presently.

“Here it is, I _guess_ ,” he grumbles, “Let’s go.”

Taima trots up in line with Minnie — Arthur’s, although from his understanding, that wasn’t by his naming — and he slides off his horse in Arthur’s wake. There’s log stands for hitching, a tassled saddle left upon one of them, but Arthur doesn’t tie his up, so Charles leaves his too. Taima can behave herself, he knows, and all that’s left is to hope they don’t find it rude as long as she does so. 

“Haven’t you been here before?” he asks.

“No. Just met ‘em in town, didn’t ride back with them. First for both of us.”

A couple of men approach them. First, the chief awaits: a bit of a shorter man, shaven and dressed dark with a noble wrapping of long, grey hair hung stiffly down his chest. Something about his attire, the shape it gives him, on top of the fact that his posture might have seen better days, gives the impression he hides in it dolefully. After him are a couple of much younger individuals, and behind them, whichever villagers were interested or nosey enough to be involved. Which, to be frank, was very few. Otherwise, the most these people are willing to invest in them is a spare glance from their tasks, and that’s all. 

When they meet, Arthur takes the liberty of greetings. “Chief,” he says, just as simple as the man is, and that’s all. 

“Mister Morgan,” the chief responds in kind, spoken slow with a rasp clawing through his voice, “I thank you.. for being here today. I hoped you would come.” 

He hears one mutter, mindfully quiet though full of distaste, “ _Mercenaries_.” He spots exactly who it’s come from. From the position he assumes next to the chief, he assumes that to be his son, the one who’s eyes look down at the dirt like it spit on him. 

A young man with a brave, boney face of scars and pock-marks, a low brow, and a visible attitude. No more than a few seconds does he know him than he recognizes that fact. But, aside from the crease in his brow from a little too much frowning, his skin looked young. Not far from his own age, the cowboy would reckon. 

Straight-shouldered, Charles clears his throat briefly, but deeply. 

Attention gained. His dark eyes flick around over Charles’ presentation; a little down, a little up, all the way down to his boots and back. The bead necklace, his hair, perhaps the woven-thread bracelet at his wrist, the weapons jutting out of his belt. The expression he wore changes, something maybe judgemental, but equally distrusting in a different way. Charles thinks the man’s recognized something in him: that trait which brings him his tone of skin and straightened hair. He couldn’t know for sure. Most people are confused, whether to call him red or black and how to treat him accordingly, and after all this time, he is never yet surprised. 

Disregarding that, he doesn’t entertain him more. He’s well beyond being provoked by _looks_ , after all; yet this is more than some of his campmates could say honestly. A moment of eye contact is shared between them — which he can’t care enough to analyze deeper. Only a moment, for Charles is here first and foremost for the chief. 

A little something about his gaze stays in his mind, though, after he’s turned away — the light’s gleam in them, despite the squint. Maybe after so long of hanging around rugged, unsocial, ugly outlaws, his appreciation for a pair of bright eyes has been neglected. That kind of spirit-look became seldom seen nowadays. 

Arthur’s been speaking in the meanmoments, as Charles has settled comfortably in the background. “This is Charles, Charles Smith,” he introduces, and shifts aside as cue for the indicated to shuffle forward and meet him.

He reaches forward for a handshake, firm but considerate, and nods his greeting. “It’s an honor, Chief.”

Rains Fall nods back, and gives what sounds like a small, relieved sigh. If he noticed anything particularly Indian about Charles’ dress or appearance either, he says nothing on it. Surprisingly. He repeats his gratitude, not just to Charles, “Thank you both for coming.”

“Sure,” answers Arthur, “what’d you call us for?”

“Two of our women were arrested in Annesburg, for reasons they will not share with us.. and they will not release them on bail. It’s to my understanding, that they intend to move them to federal custody. I fear they wish to.. make examples of them in some way. To instill fear in us, or to prove how criminal we are.”

In every word, a fraction of his presence deflates; he’s visibly beyond tired, every bit the demeanor of a man who’s gone through this many a times in the past yet still can see it again in the future.

“You want us to bring them back,” Arthur finishes for him. Perhaps he can see the same thing Charles does. Perhaps he just wants to get on with it.

“You’ll be paid. Please, just—” He falters, glancing between the two of them. Perhaps reconsidering. “—Try not to hurt anybody.”

“I can’t exactly promise anything,” Arthur says in complete honesty — but, Charles speaks up, cutting off his last word.

“We’ll do our best.”

In what Charles knows well to be Arthur’s patented, _mildly-irritated double-take_ , the man turns to give him his wordless look with a taught lip and an inquiring lift of the hand. Yet Charles only looks blankly back at him, a bit of a quirked brow but no argument presented. Both of them leave it there. 

Rains Fall looks between them again, and nods again. “Allow my son to accompany you. He’ll wait for you outside town, and help should you need it.”

“Sounds fine,” Arthur agrees. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

His son offers no words to reveal how he feels. Clearly, he’s not discontented or rebellious enough to speak up, just yet. For the second time today, they are to set out. For Arthur, it’d be the second time picking up a new passenger.

Eagle Flies explains the path briefly. _Very_ briefly: a command for Arthur “this way, this will take us straight to Annesburg,” set him on a single direction like a hunting hound. Charles knew what he had in mind. One major road runs all the way from beyond the Wapiti Reservation, through Annesburg, then all the way further down to Saint Denis. It makes the ride plenty easy. However, the bare simplicity of it gives a lot of free air, with a lot of silence to fill it. 

‘Quiet’ is no uncharted territory for Charles. He prefers it, most often, when the alternative is the irritating amusements of his gangmates. Still, riding alongside a silent stranger is admittedly peculiar; a queerness pervades.

Arthur is the one to speak up, breaking the ice. “You know, I suppose," he starts, clearly trying to be pleasant within his limited capacity to do so, "I didn't properly introduce you two. This is my friend Charles. He rides with us." 

"You mentioned.”

When, after a wait, all come to understand he doesn't intend to move past that, Arthur gives _his look_ again over his shoulder. When he turns back around to keep his horse centered, he mumbles a brief, "Alright," then tries again. His pleasantry takes on a more forced edge this time.

"Charles, this is Eagle Flies, Chief’s son. Lovely company." 

Charles hums his acknowledgement, ignoring the sarcasm which comes off him in heavy waves. “Nice to meet you.” 

It gains him a spared glance from this Eagle Flies, and a pleasantry in return, which seems as good a victory as any. 

They leave it there and allow the time to carry on, but the air is at least a little lighter amongst them, Charles thinks. He takes no offense to his bitter demeanor, still. He understands the stress of outsiders.

In no time, the wide wood bridge approaches. They slow. 

“Eagle Flies, you stay on back here,” Arthur says, and the mentioned trails back to remain among the hills. The two who are _really_ on the mission keep on. 

“Both of us going in?” asks Charles.

“Best to.”

With a nod, it’s settled.

For the size of the town of Annesburg and the delicacy of this mission, they do well to _not_ carry out their usual plan. No dynamite, no storming in with a sturdy shot through the chest of anyone in their way, no sending the place ablaze to combat their inability to bend bars with their hands. Works in little places like Valentine, not in properly populated ones like Annesburg. 

No. Instead, they park their horses out front, in broad daylight, and walk inside in all a casual attitude, their hands only _near_ to their weapons. Quite frankly, the sheriff’s is half of a wooden shack. The general store is luxurious in comparison. The security could well be improved upon, for the wall could be taken down by a strong kick at worst. Quite frankly, it might have been smarter to sneak around back and pull out a window — well, at least the old fashioned way is pretty failproof.

They had something of a plan that the two formulated along the way to act natural, and, if they were lucky, make it out of this with no more than simple civilized talk — but these two never were the best at the acting role. That was much more a Hosea thing, or Dutch on a good day, and Arthur could testify to it, being the subject needed rescuing some many times in the past. As it seems, they can’t copy the technique of the practiced masters even if they try.

The man wearing the shining star to his vest has a mustache looking like it could sprout legs, and the deputy his slicked-down hair and a heinous color of pinstripe slacks — neither of them are unassuming, though, for recognition registers in their faces on the instant they can get a look at their faces, and they start suddenly. Good on the sheriff, really. Posters of their likeness are everywhere nowadays. 

Arthur’s response is father than his. Charles follows suite on the deputy, who’s bumbling and half-risen from his chair. “ _Hush, now,_ ” his partner insists down his barrel, voice low with warning, cutting off the shout that was forming in the other’s throat, “We’re here for a few inquiries.” Halting where he was, the target raises his hands in reluctant, calm surrender, looking none too happy about it. 

“You say _anything_ , anything t’all, I will have no hesitations in killing you.” For a little reassurance, Arthur makes his way around the man’s desk, and the shimmering-clean tip of his gun comes to rest gently against his temple. “We’re looking for some young ladies we hear you’ve taken in. Let ‘em on out for us, and I’m sure you won’t miss ‘em.”

A tinny metal wall partitions the jail from the office, floor to ceiling, with two tall doors and thick lever-locks on each. ‘Sides from trial and error, Charles would have no clue how to open them, but for their luck the sheriff is willing enough to comply in that part. 

Charles keeps his watchful eye on the deputy in the exchange. He’s neared him enough to grab him around the shoulder and keep a strong threat for choking on him. Once the sheriff lets the door open, though, he opens risk alongside it; Arthur will have to shift his mind, if only for a moment, on their rescuees. Maybe the man would be willing to risk his deputy’s life, maybe he called their bluff on killing them, but he on the other hand is not so keen on the prospect of himself or Arthur getting shot in the process. _They_ were requested not to hurt anyone — these lawmen made no promise of the sort. Well... ‘eliminate the middle man,’ as Dutch always preferred. Charles rears his shotgun back and brings the base down hard onto his head; he cries out, but slumps in his grasp, unkindly dropped to the floor. There, his gun is free to be on the sheriff alone, and Arthur has a pair of free hands. The sheriff jumps, and otherwise moves with a little less resistance. 

In a loud series of _clanks_ and scraping metal, the jail door wheels open and reveals the two girls in one cell. For their first few moments of freedom, they don't know what to do; they stare aimlessly at Arthur in the doorway, sitting upon their beds. The sight of one rugged, gruff outlaw was surely of no comfort to them. Arthur, spurred by urgency, jerks his thumb over his shoulder and waves his hands upward for them to rise and come with him. “What’re you sittin’ there for? Come on. We’re gettin’ you out of here.”

The next time either one of them look out the window, it’s raining. One of those fast rains, that picks up quickly and hits heavy like God’s artillery, and it beats against the wooden walls like drums. It’s not even close to evening, but the world gets a hell of a lot darker at once as the clouds bundle up on each other in a dark, thick blanket over the sky. No deterrence to them; for what kind of cowboys can’t handle weather? 

Charles gives an unpleasant sound at the sight of it, and spares looks at Arthur and the girls, weapon still trained acutely on the sheriff. Neither is exactly fit for rain, as they were taken here some few days ago it seems, but one has a thick shawl around her shoulders, at least. 

Arthur shimmies his jacket off, and wraps it tight around their more exposed passenger damn near like he intended to hogtie her with it. Maybe he’s a little rough of a man to be dealing for a scared woman, the shock and reluctance is evident on her face, but his priority is solely set on _leaving_. From what Charles had heard and seen, Arthur seemed to have a real bad luck with prison breaks. With prison, period. Annesburg didn’t look to have the _worst_ odds that they’ll make it out of here without injury or worse, yet it remained as always that due caution could never hurt.

Besides, even Charles is a little charmed by the arm that Morgan wraps around her, and that she desperately clings to in turn. It's probably the kindest one could be in the midst of a jailbreak.

They all leave civilly out the doors again, Charles being last out and finally relieved to lower his weapon. Quickly and a little unkindly, they pull the women up onto their horses and jump on themselves, and once the girls have their hands on the riders’ hips, they’re off. 

Seconds after, the sheriff bursts out, finally feeling lucky, shouting abandon into the streets of _criminals getting away!_

People in front of them, alarmed and dazed at the sudden alert, flee to the sides of the street, finding cover under awnings and behind railings. Someone's dropped a pale handbag in the road, but the horses' hooves kick globs of dark mud over it as they fly down the way, and batter it into the ground. Unfortunate luck to its owner. Behind them, a handful of men are bold enough to play a hero’s card, firing their guns by the sheriff’s command in all the poor aim of untrained civilians. Drawing his revolver, Arthur returns a few vague shots behind them, all riders ducked low as can be to avoid any lucky hits. 

On an instantaneous impulse, Charles scolds him for it. “The chief said not to hurt anyone!” 

Arthur sounds incredulous at his integrity. “Are you really listenin' to that?! Because it looks like _they_ don’t hold that _ideology_!”

“They never do — just _run!_!”

Charles sees in a spare glance behind him that nobody’s fallen, and at least a handful of people have been properly deterred into cowardice. In this direction, he sees an _arrow_ spiral through the air; before it occurs to him how unusual that would be, if it did not come from his own bow. It sticks sharply in the arm of an unseeming man.

It looks like Eagle Flies couldn’t help himself to waiting; the travel of gun sounds must have caught his ear and pulled him in, for when Charles turns his attention back in front of him, his eyes meet him and his half-white horse riding in their direction, weapon at the ready.

“The _hell_ are you doing?! _Go,_ get out of here!” Arthur shouts at him, hand waving angrily forward. Evidently, he just wants a little bit in on the action, the accountability of being able to say he was there and therefore ‘helped’, because he does listen when the command is given, and turns to flee in the lead of them.

Beating heavily down the trail, they cover their distance faster than anyone on food. Perhaps it's only a miracle nobody's been shot, but Charles will chalk it up to good luck and simply that. Good karma for a good deed.

After they’ve gotten out of the town properly, barely any distance down the path, Arthur throws out the question. The sort that anyone sent on a mission like this would like to know, after risking their own neck.

“So what’d you do, my friends?”

“We didn’t do anything,” one pleads. “I didn’t — I tripped into a woman, and she.. _screamed_ , and told the deputy I was attacking her. Trying to rob her! I never took anything!"

Charles grimaces with the thought. _That's how they'll do it._

For a minute, they all come to a short stop, Arthur and Charles double-checking each other and themselves and their belongings. The horses huff unhappily each. Eagle Flies looks down into the town with distaste written across his face, but his eyes are glued to the sky. Despite the blackness composing the backdrop, even blacker puffs of industrial smoke billow into the sky, none deterred by the rain, like monsters grossly deformed with wide open mouths to suck in all natural air in the radius. Even from here, it can be smelled still, and sticks invisibly to their clothes. 

His emboldened accents simmer away into a quiet, grieved utterance: “I _hate_ this place.” Then, he turns his horse with an angry jerk of the arm, and to rejoin the congregation. He and the women they rescued share a brief exchange, albeit in their own language and therefore remains a mystery to either of the cowfolk. Not that it’s their right business either way.

The furrow in his brow has lightened until the crease is nearly gone entirely, by the time he thanks them next. His prickliness has worn well off. The time waiting must have given him a chance to simmer down from his initial prejudices, or maybe the rain washed it off. Although he too was smart enough to wear a coat, lined in animal fur, both his and his horse’s hair is stuck wetly to their necks by now. 

Arthur tips his hat to him in a magnanimous silence. Then comes the secondary thanks: an extended hand with a narrow stack of dollar bills, handed swiftly and stowed away to avoid the weather.

“One of us’ll probably have to head back,” Arthur muses, “being there’s two of ‘em.”

“I can go. I’ll meet you back at camp, and we can deal the money later.”

“Suit yourself, I’ll keep it safe.”

Arthur steps off Minnie to offer a gentlemanly hand to the woman who’d sat behind him, and help her down. For she possessed his coat, she begins to unravel herself — but he holds a hand up to stop her, with a dismissive sound that might have been a _no_. “Keep that’un. I’ll be fine. There’s nothin’ in it.”

 _Pneumonia will kill you before a gun does,_ Charles thinks, but, once again, does not say aloud. 

This pause has allowed the Annesburg law to altogether collect themselves and their weapons, for now they’ve started to catch up, four of them atop horseback. Charles sees the movement in his peripheral, yet he’s no less startled by the _bang_ and the bullet that flies through the air past them. A bad shot, but with more come. Both of the women give a small, shocked shriek.

“Go on,” Charles bids, and Arthur kicks his horse into a run across the plain. To Eagle Flies, who’s quickly took the other upon his horse, he nods forwardly, and they resume the flee. 

Next he looks behind them, one has split off to follow their third companion — to which Charles can only feel pity upon such a man’s fate — while the rest three still loyally pursue them. They yell some things, lost weak threats that he’s heard uncounted times already, but nobody’s listening. Much of any kind of sound is swept away by wind noise and the plattering of rain in the earth anyhow. What is for certain, is that the men have held off their gunfire, understanding the waste of ammunition. Now, it’s simply a race. 

They both heel into their horses’ ribs until break-neck speeds at the same time, the realization upon the both of them. Eagle Flies’ reigns are looped in his hands nearly as far as he can reach, and he almost stands from the saddle, smartly; Charles follows suit, only lower. Eagle Flies, despite his scars, strikes him as a man who hasn’t been shot very many times before. 

A sharp fork in the road with a sudden tor of tall peaks on one side approaches. Charles weighs their choices in his head swiftly. The rain _hurts_ in his face, frozen pins jabbed into his skin, and he’s _certain_ its gotten heavier in the last minute. "Take this corner, they'll lose sight of us — then ride into the forest!" 

"Okay!" Eagle Flies shouts back. His horse almost doesn’t make the turn, her hooves dug deep into the mud; but his barked commands get through to her, and he stays alive yet. He’s well in control.

They get good and lost in the dark swath of treeland, staying vaguely enough in sight of one another to get out of sight of the police. These men are not practiced in the art of rough riding, for not enough times have they been riding for their lives, and the underbrush trips them up some ways back. Charles doesn’t know what becomes of them, and their shouting fades under the rain eventually. Without lanterns in wet woods, they can’t be sure of their footing. 

Still, it’s a risk for Charles too. He’s practiced — and so is Eagle Flies as it seems, for he glides through this terrain like it were flat grasslands with his horse’s white tail flowing behind — but the risk of a gnarled root is still random, even to those masters of nature. A few times, Taima’s hoof falters and his heart stops with the image of flying forward off her saddle with a young woman to follow, either one of them falling victim to a stray kick or impaled on a broken thing; but she always regains her footing. The worst of it is only outreaching branches that whip at his arms with their thin fingers. Once he feels comfortably gone, and damn tired enough of those branches, he makes sure to get out as soon as he can. Even if this leaf canopy provides some fair shelter. 

He emerges out the other side to another road, as does the other just a minute behind him. He takes a deep breath of freshly wettened air. Both pairs of eyes watch behind them for a long time, gently trotting forward. 

When it seems the shock has, in the most part, settled down for everyone, a gentle hand on his shoulder draws his attention. "Thank you," his passenger tells him, her voice meek, "for saving us. I didn't know what was going to happen in there."

"Don't worry. You're safe now." 

He notices quickly that Eagle Flies has his strange gaze on him. 

"That was good riding," he offers, throwing his neck on the line to extend an olive branch. "You and your horse work well together." 

"You as well." In all his hedginess, he seems honest and cordial now, and without hesitation either. His expression hasn’t changed greatly, though his tone has. Could be that each of them are equally impressed by one another there, and it’s not a sentiment of Charles alone. All the same, it’s a nice bridge. 

While he, given his tracking skills, could assume the way back to the reservation, he doesn’t wish to step in the way of the chief’s son’s government of the pack. So, he waves his hand, now loose on the reigns, forward, and says, “Lead the way.” Eagle Flies rides half a pace ahead of him, then, while thunder rolls overhead.

—————————

The ride back is just as long as the ride to, and the rain has kept up until that evening. The clouds are only a bit paler than the mountains in front of them. Charles wonders how Arthur faired. Most likely, just fine — Charles has no need to worry over a man who’s been at this several years longer than he has, and still he does. 

His own hide, however.. Now it’s his turn to trek all the way back the same way they’ve just come and further. It’s no desirable journey except for those with a lot to sort out in their mind, and Charles couldn’t say he had that today.

He puts off the thought of it for the moment, as he steps off Taima and offers a hand to his guest that she takes gladly. 

By the time he’s tied Taima up, and Eagle Flies has done so with his mount whose name is a mystery, Rains Fall has somehow gotten news of their return and come to see how they’ve faired. Charles keeps his back to them and their greetings as he knots his reigns around the log.

“I take it Mr. Morgan has returned to where you’re staying,” Rains Fall says, less a question than a statement. 

Charles hums an affirmative, whether he can be heard over the steady beat of rain or the whistle of wind or not. 

“I see,” he murmured still. “Give him my thanks when you see him. As to you, too; thank you.” 

“Of course.”

For now, the rain was a bit light; but Charles squints into the distance and has sudden, clear foresight. A new sheet came heavy and dark down across the mountainside, sweeping through the dark green of the forest and bringing the whole land to an angle.

He hesitates, and turns to Rains Fall. “Do you mind if I stay here? Until the rain settles down.”

Eagle Flies’ mouth opens indeed to reject the request, but his tongue is not swifter than his father’s, who, with an uncanny recognition, knows precisely what was about to come. “You’re welcome to,” he tells Charles. To the former, he turns, placing a age-stiffened hand on his shoulder. “Show him hospitality, my son. He’s helped us. Now, let us get out of this weather.”

His chest falls with a sigh. “Alright. Just, don’t—” A small throat-noise breaks himself off, as he looks away with trouble. _Don’t be here,_ Charles can imagine he _really_ means, but is forced into kindness to a stranger who did a favor. A paid favor, yes, but one nonetheless. He makes no further effort to finish his thought, just throws his leg over the side of his horse to go by foot and gestures for Charles to follow. 

Apparently, that was a yes. 

All fires outside have been put out by the rain, left in their ashy and wet remains, but blue plumes of smoke rise from the holes in the tops of their tents, and tell of warmth to await. Eagle Flies allows for his father and the women they’ve rescued to enter the tipi flaps before he and Charles; which is strikingly respectful of him. Then, passively disrespectful on the flipside, he himself crouches through next, and lets Charles follow him idly. 

Fire burns steadily and bold in here, to his relief, and the heat only circulates in these thick walls. The smell of burning herb is _thick_. There’s more space inside of these than there ever appears to be from the outside. Rains Fall is already wringing a wet cloth, sat before a stretch of elk hide upright and taught like a regal backdrop, various things hung above him: woven feathers, a large steer skull, things that might be jewelry if Charles knew any better. Things he couldn’t identify if he tried. Two other people were already inside, but it’s barely crowded, even with the astounding five newcomers. 

“Mister Smith, was it?” the chief greets him. “It’s a pleasure to have you join us.” 

Even though they’re all quite soaked, he presses his prepared cloth to the faces of both the ladies and they have no complaints. Another man who was already seated in here has blankets he gives them to dry off. They’re probably due for showers, but this would be the best they’d have for now. 

“The pleasure’s mine,” Charles replies. 

Eagle Flies wastes no time for pleasantries to get his subject of thought off his chest. Plagued him it must have, for a vexed urgency sweeps his manners away like leaves in the wind.

“We need not hire outlaws for _everything,_ Father,” said the son, with no regard for Charles’ presence. “This is the second time.” 

“And I need not risk my son’s life, for duties he cannot pursue. Or any other of my people. What matters is that we are safe, and together.”

A look to object crosses his face, but he does not open his mouth; at once, the dynamic becomes clear to Charles. Indignant sons among family disagreements are no new story. It isn’t his business, so he looks away from the heated aura of Eagle Flies, and shifts focus on to everyone else. The cool reserve that Rains Fall proved himself to be; the quietness of everyone else.

"Have our friends introduced themselves to you yet, Mr. Smith?" Rains Fall, too, has shifted his attention. 

“No sir.”

With a wide hand, he gestures each. “Their.. _English_ names: In-Sight Woman, and White Bark, who have been returned to us.” The way he presents it sounds somewhere between a statement to Charles, and an announcement to the people in the vicinity. The one who swims in Arthur’s familiar jacket is In-Sight Woman, as it turns out, and the other the latter. The two men come next, for the one who sat a little hidden away, and the one who’d come to join Eagle Flies’ side. “And this is Kill-in-the-Water, and Fire — but the Army has decided to keep _Paytah_ in his paperwork.”

Whether that means he should call him Fire or Paytah is not clarified. 

They each look at him with a sort of wide eye. Even the two he had just spent the last few hours with; like they never expected him to stay any longer than he needed to, and much less to be introduced. He has a better chance to see their faces now than on the ride back, even if the light is inconsistent. In-Sight Woman’s narrow face is a rich warm brown as it reflects the fire’s golden cast, and White Bark has taken her long hair out to fall down her back and a little in front of her eyes and pale cheeks. He recognizes this Fire or Paytah, too; he’d stood next to Eagle Flies this morning, too. 

Internally, if not externally, he squirms under the scrutiny of so many eyes on him. The only person who _isn’t_ looking at him with expectation is Eagle Flies, busying himself in shuffling around the fire, to complete some protocol of something that is not known to Charles. 

“Good evening. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances." 

His millionth greeting of the day; one that feels like he’s just parroted from a book. He looks across all of them, briefly, so as to not be rude, but that was the extent of what he had left to offer. Otherwise, he averts his gaze to Eagle Flies' back. It's the only place he _could_ look, without the risk of looking too near to someone's attention.

“Please, sit,” Rains Fall says, and gestures aside where Kill-in-the-Water sat. In all his time in the outlaw business, he had grown to know wariness towards those who shrowd in shadow as Kill-in-the-Water appears to do; but at the same time, he’s all too aware of a cautious eye kept on _him_ too from the very same man, who doesn’t seem anything near happy with an interloper’s appearance here. 

He’s sure the only reason they’re bearing him yet is that, while an outsider still, at least he isn’t white. On looks alone, he’s somewhat less of a threat in this regard. He doesn't mind that perspective.

Hawing aside, he sits where he's told, awkwardly. He and his neighbor assume places furthest from Rains Fall’s very clearly designated seat, as well as assuming no contact or conversation with one another. Eagle Flies comes to sit beside the chief, and Fire-or-Paytah beside Eagle Flies. The women are on the other half of the tent, sitting atop their share of a log seating, with the chief tending to them and giving comforting welcomes. He juts his boots out closer to the ring around the fire, and he can feel the heat already drawing the wetness from his soaking pants and sleeves.

A couple of them fall into chatter through the general, tired nervousness they all seem to share. Rains Fall (the only one who seems just tired, less nervous) asks the girls about all that happened, and they relay what they can recall in short pieces between them. Like they don’t know exactly _what_ to say. Charles understands that, although he made no habit of getting arrested. There’s not much to be said about it all, for the most it consists of is sitting alone in a six-by-six with less than nothing to do, worst cases with a chatty neighbor across from you, until you’re either set free or hung. Or, maybe in Army cases like these faced… well, he couldn’t say what they might do. Maybe you die in there. All he knew of that kind, was that they had showed no mercy upon his own people — if he could call them his people. 

With Fire-or-Paytah and Eagle Flies, he overheard a few idle comments. 

From the former, in a slightly hushed tone, “What do you think?” 

The latter flicks his gaze up to Charles, before dropping it again. “I don’t know.”

Charles wouldn’t have a clue what they were talking about. He had a suspicion it was him, somehow, within some mysterious unspoken prelude that he must have missed.

He’d trained his eyes then on his father and their innocents, looking between them all, adopting a slow few bounces of his knee that dug the tip of his shoe into the dirt ground. “I’m tired of this. _All this._ One day, the Army won’t be _able_ to take from us anymore.” 

An image of his mother comes to Charles’ mind. The single photograph he still had of her and his father, before he was even yet five years old, which he was lucky enough to not lose to the Blackwater scuffle. He heard Lenny lost his father’s watch. 

Sitting around a campfire feels an awful good place for storytelling, but even while his story sits on the side of his tongue, altogether ready to be told, he keeps it there in his cheek. He doesn’t know where he would start if he tried to open his mouth. 

Kill-in-the-Water said nothing. Rather, he busied his hands for the meantime in unwrapped foodthings from a tawny cloth that he procured quite stealthily from someplace nobody saw. From the looks of it, mostly cured and dried dark meat pieces, alongside green beans and a piece of bread. Likely something he’d made up for himself; but he passes along this collection to White Bark with humble nodding of insistence. 

It makes Charles realize it’s been most of the day since he’d eaten anything. Ah, well; he’d survive. If he must set up camp on the way back, he could hunt something there. Certainly can’t stop by the general store _now_.

Without any foreshadow, or at least that _Charles_ noticed, White Bark begins a sudden _crying_ that came on as fast and heavy and unpredicted as the rain did. Anyone who had been talking, stopped. In sympathy, the other woman put her arm around her shoulder and her hand to her cheek and held her close into her own neck. White Bark sobs, now, inconsolably, making throat-whines and clutching the tawny cloth tight in her hands. 

She says _something_ — if they were English words, they were unintelligible, and if they were not, it would explain why Charles couldn’t make sense of any one of them. 

It’s something like the latter, he assumes, when all three men come to attention and look between themselves — then, Eagle Flies and his close companion get up and rush out the flap-doors with urgency. Moments of only quiet crying follow, eyes on the sliver of visible outside world. When they return, Eagle Flies has a bundle in his arms with small hands sticking up from the folds in small fists. He isn’t exactly holding it right, but at least hunched over it that his shoulders were a shield from water falling in its face.

White Bark has her arms outstretched instantly in mother’s desperation. Charles has no clue how long they’d had her in jail, how long Rains Fall attempted to negotiate before writing for Arthur’s aid. From the looks of it, too long for her fragile frontage of bravery or weak soul.

It strikes him fast why Rains Fall would hire a pair of outlaws for the fairly small task of breaking someone out of prison. And _why_ the federal government would be interested in taking them in the first place. Eagle Flies hands the kid over to it’s eager, young mother; she puts her face into the patterned blanket in her grasp in monumental relief.

Another man crawls into the tent more delayed than the other two, and with each progression of the evening Charles feels he’s seen too much of too private matters. Only the top of his hair has suffered from rain, suggesting he ran, if his huffing breath did not give it away. His eyes connect with White Bark’s, and they brighten like touched by angels while he rushes by her side. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but Charles is stuck in staring. Arthur wouldn’t have a clue that his answer had brought any of this. For the first time in a while, guilt becomes of him for taking someone’s money. He would have done this for free. 

Eagle Flies has strode a little closer to Charles during so. “The rain is nearly gone,” he tells him, pointedly. And Charles knows how to take the hint. 

Part of him itches with inexplicable restlessness, anyway. Eagle Flies sees him out, _all_ the way out, a guard letting his prisoner free that he could not wait to see gone. Seeing as he dealt with an outlaw, it’s a smart decision either way; Charles’ entire profession is in stealing and robbing, even if he had no intentions of doing either to the reservation. 

In emerging from the nigh-sickening aroma of sage inside the tipi, the fresh air from outside hits him with a burst of wet smell. Dirt and rain, carried along the breeze. After its strong fire, the coolness of outside crawled up his sleeves, and called his arm hair to attention. The mountains in the distance are a dull purple-blue, and everything else he can see is cast muted dark green in the shade it brings. Sight-seeing does not hinder any of his speed in untying and climbing his steed, under the other man’s supervision.

As his body moved away, his heart tugged back — an invisible string drawing his chest inwards, forcing his anxious breath to escape him. Pleading he not go just yet, so soon. In his mind is stuck the thought of what regrets might plague him if he says nothing else. 

In some shot to obey this.. _vocation_ , Charles clears his throat, as though it could clear out the blockage that held his words in there. 

“You know,” he starts, then instantly chastises himself for starting so stupidly. He stutters not once, but twice in attempting to choke out a sentence, “I— I.. If you all need anything else.. I’d be happy to help.”

Eagle Flies looks at him with almost no change to his face, save for his brow falling a fraction into the tightness he often wore. “We don’t need paid help from outlaws.”

“Not paid. Just, any help. Food, supplies. Anything. I’d like to.” 

Presently, he notices that he’s said more words today alone than all week, and told more to strangers than he ever would elsewhere. Hell, than he ever would say to most people he _knows_. This, he will need to remedy tomorrow and the next days, in not talking to _anyone_ , and hopefully he’ll be needed of nothing.

Eagle Flies watches him from 14 hands below with all the scanning eye of a bird, searching his face — for dishonesty? Any indication not to trust him. Maybe, behind that, looking for something to hope for. Reason _to_ trust him. His lip quirks consideringly with a shift of his jaw.

What were the chances that the chief’s son would believe him for honest if he told, now, his old bland story of his Indian mother and freedman father? Even now, some evil of doubt kept his words to himself. 

“Alright. Thank you,” he answers. 

The feeling in his chest evaporates like that, and he sighs his newfound ease without his mind’s consent. _Settled._ Eagle Flies turns away already, as if he couldn’t bear to allow his pride to cave like so, so Charles does the same without another word. Even if they should never call upon him to return again, he feels better that he tried. 

There’s no color left to the skyline, save for a gradient from twilight blue to midnight blue rising up, and what’s left of a sunset that could have been above the clouds. 

He started wearily down the home-stretch as he recounted it.

**Author's Note:**

> there's nigh 17k words written for the future of this already, so don't be worried; they get together eventually. i'll see it to my grave
> 
> anyhow ; if you have thoughts, let me know what you think, be it good or bad. i admittedly rushed it a fair bit due to my draft set to expire today, so proofreading will probably be underway in the future.


End file.
